


Music to My Ears

by idiotslantern



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Whump, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28423179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiotslantern/pseuds/idiotslantern
Summary: It's a run of the mill hunt; the local Alderman says that a small pack of ghouls has been disturbing the cemetery at the edge of town, and he wants it dealt with. It's nothing Geralt hasn't taken care of before, countless times.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 101
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	Music to My Ears

**Author's Note:**

> So. This is the first Witcher fic I've actually finished. I've got two WIPs sitting on my computer, but I am nothing if not a procrastinator, so they'll probably be sitting there for a while until something or someone properly motivates me to finish them. Oops.  
> For DamaraKap-art who wanted a little Jaskier whump for The Witcher Secret Santa 2020. Hope you like!!

It's a run of the mill hunt; the local Alderman says that a small pack of ghouls has been disturbing the cemetery at the edge of town, and he wants it dealt with. It's nothing Geralt hasn't taken care of before, countless times.

  
He and Jaskier make their way to the local inn once they've stabled Roach, and Jaskier goes about securing them a room after shooing Geralt away to grab them some lunch with a comment about Geralt needing to keep his strength up for his upcoming battle with those “vicious little beasties.”

Once the barmaid heads back toward the kitchen to fetch Geralt a couple of bowls of stew, he sits back to watch Jaskier work his charm on the innkeeper, attempting to get a bath sent up to their room for free. Jaskier is all soft lips and fluttering eyelashes to go with his honeyed words, but the innkeeper looks more exasperated than anything, and Jaskier joins him, key in hand and pout on his lips.

“That could've gone better.” He sits with a huff, and Geralt offers him a grunt in response. Jaskier looks like he's going to continue – like he's about to detail the innkeeper's offenses in not giving in to Jaskier's charms – but the barmaid returns with their stew and a flagon of ale, and Jaskier instead turns to her, his eyes sparkling and his mouth tilted up in a flirty smile. Geralt sighs and tucks into his soup, paying little mind to Jaskier and the latest object of his fleeting affections.

–

Once they've finished their meal, Geralt and Jaskier head up to their room where Geralt sets about sharpening and oiling his swords, and preparing for a ghoul hunt. All the while, Jaskier flits about the room, talking about this and that, muttering to himself as he brainstorms new lyrics, bemoans the fact that another pack of ghouls hardly makes for an interesting adventure to write about.

After so long on the road with Jaskier, his constant prattling on no longer serves as an annoyance or a distraction. It's simply a fact of his life. He's gotten so used to it, he almost finds it calming by this point. Jaskier's voice – be it speaking, singing, murmuring, humming, what have you – has snaked its way through Geralt's ears, deep into his mind, where it has curled up, safe and warm and happy, like it belongs there.

Evening eventually comes, as it tends to do, and Geralt has his armor on, his swords strapped to his back, and potions at the ready. He makes for the door but stops in his tracks when he hears Jaskier move behind him.

“Stay here,” Geralt tells him with a sigh.

“Oh, come off it, Geralt. It's just a few ghouls. You can take care of those easy enough, and I'll stay far enough back that they won't notice me, but I can still manage to see at least _some_ of the action.”

Geralt levels him with a stern look. Jaskier doesn't respond quite as Geralt would hope, but he does seem resigned to Geralt's bidding.

“Fine,” he huffs before flopping on the bed. “I suppose I'll see about earning us some extra coin while you're off doing your acts of dashing heroism.”

Geralt doesn't have the patience to deal with Jaskier's petulance, and instead responds with a brief _Hmm_ , then heads out the door, leaving Jaskier to tuning his lute.

–

As Geralt approaches the cemetery, he downs a vial of black blood and draws his silver sword, coating it with necrophage oil. He focuses his hearing, listening for any hint of movement, and hears nothing but silence. The kind of eerie stillness that precedes danger and chaos and bloodshed.

A “small pack” of ghouls turns out to be more of a medium sized packs of ghouls, led by a particularly hideous alghoul. Geralt sets his sights on the ugly bastard and tries his damnedest to dispatch it as soon as possible, waiting until it lays motionless at his feet before going after the rest of the pack.

The silence from before is gone, the air rife with the sounds of ghastly cries of pain and of silver slicing through rotting flesh. He's mowed down the majority of the ghouls when he notices that the alghoul that he thought he'd killed no longer lays where he left it. Instead, it's limping and shuffling toward the tree line. Moving toward _something_.

Geralt takes a deep breath, scenting the air, hoping the damned thing is just trying to save its own hide, or maybe running toward some unlucky villager, too stupid to stay home when there's a pack of ghouls wandering around the outskirts of town. But no. It's not some villager. He knows that scent.

_Fuck_.

He wrenches his sword free from the neck of the ghoul in front of him and runs hard in the direction of the alghoul. He hopes to every god he can think of that he's fast enough to close the distance before Jaskier gets hurt, or maybe that the bard is smart enough to turn tail and run, and fast enough to allow time for Geralt to intervene.

The alghoul is only a few meters away from Jaskier, the distance between it and Geralt even narrower, when suddenly it turns and leaps at Geralt, all claws and teeth and jaws, the scent of death and decay spewing from its gaping maw every time it gnashes its teeth at Geralt's face. Geralt shoves an arm up to defend himself. Lets the cursed thing sink its teeth into his flesh, and watches as his tainted blood takes effect.

The alghoul rends its teeth free of Geralt's arm and lets out a piercing, bloodcurdling scream that gets cut short as Geralt drives his sword through the creature's neck.

Geralt pushes the dead alghoul off of him and climbs to his feet and continues toward Jaskier. He looks shaken, the tiniest bit aroused, and most importantly, safe. Geralt gives him the faintest of smiles, holding his injured arm close to his body, and is about to scold Jaskier for waltzing straight into harm's way after being specifically told he needed to stay at the inn, when a ghoul comes out of nowhere, pouncing on Jaskier.

Jaskier shrieks in shock and alarm, but not, so far as Geralt can tell, in pain. Geralt makes quick work of the ghoul, running it through and shoving it off of Jaskier, and quickly checks for any other stragglers.

When he's sure there's none left, he helps Jaskier to his feet and Jaskier chuckles under his breath. He aims for amused and lighthearted, but misses the mark with how shaky he sounds.

“That was close, huh?”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt growls. “You could have gotten killed. What happened to staying at the damned inn?”

He lets Jaskier lean on him as they leave the cemetery and head back toward town, enjoying the warm press of his body against his side. “Well, you see,” Jaskier sounds a little out of breath, but that could easily be from having the piss scared out of him by a couple of angry necrophages. “I very much did stay at the inn, fully intending to play a few songs, maybe earn enough coin to pay for a bath to be sent up before you got back.”

Geralt's heart warms a little at the sentiment, but he keeps his face impassive. No matter what he may have been planning to do, he still came out here and put both of them at risk.

“The problem was, there were only a handful of people at the inn, and none of them were quite as receptive to my musical stylings as I would have liked. So I went back to my earlier plan to watch you from afar.”

“And how'd that go?”

“Not well,” Jaskier grouses. “No need to be cheeky about it.”

Jaskier winces, trying to stifle a groan, and manages to stop any witty retorts Geralt might have had brewing in their tracks.

Jaskier tries to keep stumbling forward, but Geralt has stopped, and Jaskier is having a hard time keeping himself upright without a Witcher to lean on. He stops a couple of paces ahead, a hand pressed to his side, and now that they've put some distance between themselves and the putrid scent of dead, rotting ghouls, Geralt can clearly pick out the coppery scent of human blood. _Jaskier's_ blood.

Noticing the concern on Geralt's face, Jaskier tells him “I'm _fine_.” What's clearly meant to come off as reassuring sounds weak and feeble, and as Geralt steps forward to inspect the damage, Jaskier goes to turn and keep going, but instead, crumples toward the ground.

Geralt rushes forward and manages to reach him in time to soften his fall. He pulls aside Jaskier's doublet – a convenient deep crimson – to reveal that his chemise is soaked through with blood.

_Fuck._

Tearing a strip of fabric off the bottom of Jaskier's doublet, Geralt makes a mediocre bandage, something that will at least staunch the blood long enough for him to make it the short distance to town, and then gently hefts Jaskier into his arms, moving as briskly as he can without jostling Jaskier any more than necessary.

–

In an uncommon stroke of luck, someone hears his cries for help shortly after he enters the village, and leads him to the healer with little fuss. The healer – a sturdy, middle-aged man with hair graying at the temples – must have been woken up by the frantic knocking at his door, but to his credit, he comes to full wakefulness as soon as his eyes land on the blood staining Jaskier's abdomen.

The healer instructs Geralt to lay Jaskier on a table as he flits about with surprising swiftness, gathering herbs and vials and tools.

“What can I do to help?” Geralt ignores the way his voice breaks and focuses on trying to find a way to be useful.

“Nothing, lad. Just stay out of the way, and your friend'll be alright.”

Geralt deflates, but stands back, watching as this stranger holds Jaskier's life in his hands.

–

It feels like an eternity passes, but eventually the healer steps away from Jaskier, wiping the blood from his hands, and tossing blood-soaked linens into a basket in the corner.

“You that Witcher fella?”

Geralt grunts in response.

“You take care of those ghouls?”

Geralt nods.

The healer nods back in what Geralt assumes is thanks. “Saw what looked like a nasty bite on your arm when you came in. I'll take a look.”

“I'm fine,” Geralt grunts.

“Humor an old man, will you?” Reluctantly, Geralt holds his arm out to the healer. The wound has already started to heal, but that doesn't stop the man from cleaning and dressing it anyway.

As he works, the healer prattles on about something that Geralt pays little mind to. Instead, Geralt is focused on Jaskier, laying across the room, the only movement the soft rise and fall of his chest. Geralt hones in on the soft sound of Jaskier's breathing and the thump-thump of his heart – not nearly strong and steady enough for Geralt's liking.

Geralt's not sure when the healer takes his leave, but he finds himself sitting vigil over Jaskier's nearly still body, with nothing but the crackling fire in the hearth to keep him company.

The silence in the room is deafening to Geralt. There was a time, not too long ago, that silence comforted him. Brought him peace. But there's been little room for silence in Geralt's life since he met Jaskier, and though he'd be loathe to admit it, he doesn't want to go back.

His life has become full of talk and song and laughter and _Jaskier_. All of which he often gives the impression he would rather do without. And which he could have lost, all in one fell swoop. His heart aches at the thought, and he takes Jaskier's hand in his, holding it tight and pressing his lips to Jaskier's knuckles.

He lets his eyes fall shut, finding solace in Jaskier's soft breathing.

“I'm sorry, Jask,” he mutters softly.

“For what?” Geralt's eyes fly open at the rough sound of Jaskier's voice, and he releases Jaskier's hand.

“Jaskier...”

Jaskier shifts to sit up, and immediately thinks better of it, his hand flying to his side, pressing gently against his bandaged side. “Melitele's sopping cunt, that hurts.”

Geralt lets out a soft chuckle, laying a hand on Jaskier's shoulder to keep him from trying to move again.

“Hmm. Ghoul bites will do that.”

Jaskier groans, eyes screwing shut. “I suppose you'll see fit to say 'I told you so' now?”

“Maybe later.” The relief flooding Geralt's chest must be getting to him, a he's unable to stop himself from admitting, “I'm just glad to hear your voice.”

Jaskier looks just as surprised to hear it as Geralt is to say it, but the surprise is quickly washed away by a fond smile. “And I yours, Geralt.”

Geralt takes Jaskier's hand in his again. Jaskier's grip is weaker than usual, but his hand is warm and his pulse thrums steadily.

–

The healer lets Jaskier stay there for another night while his injuries heal, but Geralt has them back at the inn the following night, and on the road a few more after that.

They take it easy while Jaskier recuperates, and Geralt even lets him ride Roach. And if Geralt appreciates Jaskier's singing a little more after that, well, that's his own business.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to hit me up on ye ol' tumblr, if you feel so inclined. Yell at me to write something. Or gif something. Motivate me.


End file.
